


Sing a Sweet Lullaby, Draw Me To Sleep

by CrypticNitwit



Category: Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
Genre: 3+1 Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Polyamory, i know i know. not the whole thing though, please trust my questionable narrative choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrypticNitwit/pseuds/CrypticNitwit
Summary: Pip, Herbert, and Clara share three nightmares among them, then finally get one decent night's sleep.
Relationships: Herbert Pocket/Clara Barley/Philip Pirrip
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Clara

**Author's Note:**

> Dickens is probably rolling in his grave and I'm not even sorry. Get that man some exercise. also turns out I can only come up with 3 basic premises sorry folks I know I already did a pipbert dreamfic but w.e!  
> comments/concrit are much appreciated!

_You wake up in your little bed, the grey sheets tangled around your ankles. Above you, you can hear the_ thump, thump, thump _of your father demanding breakfast._

_But you haven't got his food. He didn't give you anything to make for breakfast. You haven't even a breakfast for yourself._

_You stand and hurry into the kitchen, your hands frighteningly empty. You open the cabinets hoping there is some food to be made—of course, there isn't. It's all upstairs with Pa._

Thump. Thump. Thump. Crack.

_The sound of splintering wood crashes into you. You need to hurry. Pork, veal, beans, strawberries, rum, something, anything. Maybe you can go down to the market this morning._

_Up the stairs you run to tell him your plan. But the door to his room won't open. The end of the hallway is splintering off, the wall is gone—he's shaking the house apart—you can see the river rushing below and feel the water on your face._

_The doorknob, which has always been sticky at best, is jammed up and slippery, and you can't even get a good grip on it. The wind is whipping into the hallway now. The house is creaking terribly, as though it will fall into the Thames at any moment. Even still:_ thump, thump, thump.

_The wood is rotting beneath your bare feet. You grip onto the door handle as a last resort when you finally slide down with the splintering wood, the thumping of Pa's cane merging with the rush of the water to form a terrible, sick tempo, and as your fingers slip from the doorknob—you knew they would—you-_

Clara gasps as the water engulfs her, hands gripping tight to whatever she can find—but what she finds is soft white sheets, dry and warm from the sleeping bodies it protects. She takes a second to breathe and calm her racing heart.

She pushes herself up onto her elbows. The room is dark. The sheets have come untucked from the corners of the bed, and Herbert, who sleeps beside her, has brought them around his shoulders. Clara pauses and watches the rise and fall of his ribs as he breathes, calmer—she hopes—than she in sleep.

Though the room is dark, a thin flicker of light flashes under the door, and she notices the lack of company to her other side. She carefully pushes the sheets away. Donning her night jacket and slippers, she tiptoes down the hall to the parlor. There's a fire lit there, and on the sofa before it sits Pip, engrossed in a book.

She shuts the parlor door, which catches his attention. He sets the book down and looks to her with concern, a tiredness in his eyes that she is sure her own reflect. "Good evening, Clara," he says, his voice low.

"Morning now, I think, Pip," she says, settling on the sofa beside him. He moves to make room.

"Is it?" He looks to the clock in the corner of the room, the light from the fire glinting from the arms. "I hardly noticed the time." Then he looks to her. "And what wakes you so early?"

Clara sighs. She closes her eyes for a moment, tipping her head to the side and leaning heavily on Pip's shoulder, grateful for his presence beside her. “Just a nightmare.”

Pip nods. “What of?”

“My father.”

“Ah,” says Pip. “Old Gruffandgrim.” He slips an arm around Clara's waist and tugs her closer.

“Such a silly name for such a… serious man,” Clara says. She takes up the corner of her nightgown and picks at the threads.

“He did seem the sort to show up in nightmares,” murmurs Pip. “Wholly unpleasant, if you'll pardon my saying so.”

"You're right," she says. "I'm not sorry he's gone."

"I must say I much prefer you here than in that house," Pip replies, squeezing her waist in as comforting a way as he can.

Heart warmed, she fixes her gaze on the fire before her. The glow of it is warm and yellow, and the heat of it and of Pip beside her provides stark contrast against the cold squall that occupied her dreams.

From her side comes, "Did I ever tell you about my sister?"

“No,” Clara says.

Pip takes up her slender hand and begins to run his thumb across her knuckles. "She was a terror," he says, "and she raised me by hand; though more by way of her hands, I should think, for she used them fearfully against me, and against poor Joe—her husband—when he got in the way."

Clara hums. “She does seem the sort to show up in nightmares,” she says, flashing Pip a small, sympathetic smile.

Pip laughs wryly at that. “She often did.”

"Still?"

"No, no longer. I have found better people who ease my mind.” He squeezes her hand. "As I hope to ease yours."

Clara smiles.

They're silent together for a minute. By degrees, Pip seems to fall asleep. First his hand around hers loosens—though never lets go—then his head tilts, coming to rest partially on her own. Outside, the church bells form the chorus of one in the morning.

This rouses him from his sleep long enough for him to bring Clara's hand to his lips. "Good night, Clara," he mumbles.

Clara only just manages to reply in kind before dozing off herself.

* * *

Warm murmurs drift above her head, and she is certain it isn't a dream. With concentrated effort, she opens her eyes.

Above her—for at some point she has become rather horizontal—is Pip, and below her too, for her head has come to rest in his lap. He is speaking in warm tones over her head to Herbert, who, after a moment, comes into view just above her to kiss Pip.

Her yawn draws the attention of the two men above her. The combined warmth of their smiles turned on her is near blinding. She sits up.

After morning greetings—and her own complaints of a stiff neck—Herbert settles a hand on her arm. “Was my company so poor last night?”

“I’m afraid the company of my own mind was poor last night, Herbert, and I would not have troubled anyone with it, but Pip was already awake.” Clara leans into his touch with a small smile. “Worry not.”

“If you insist,” Herbert says, and he excuses himself to get ready for the day with a gentle reminder to Pip to do the same.

Pip stands, stretches, pulls Clara up to stand before him. “Did you sleep well?”

“As well as one can when she is not in a bed,” Clara says playfully. She sobers a little, then. “Thank you, Pip.”

“Of course,” says he, and kisses her. “I'll be sure to come to bed early tonight.”

“You had better. But first, you had better dress for work, or else you'll be late.”

Pip heeds her with a smile and a lingering touch, and as he disappears into the hallway, she turns to the cool embers in the fireplace, determined to coax it back to its solid warmth.


	2. Pip

_ Your hands are bound. You've accepted this as a simple fact—maybe even a part of your existence. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. _

_ No; the ropes, tight around your wrists and arms, burn with your every movement. The room around is too dark to see, but you can hear a man's cruel laughter and metal clinking. When his rambling speech starts up again, you pin his identity down as Orlick—come back to finish the job, you’re sure. _

_ You aren't sure how long you've been here. You can't even distinctly make out his words. Dimly, you wonder if he's poisoned you this time, left you to fade away while he laughs. _

_ But now there's a corner of light, and—oh, of course—he lifts a hood from your head, blinding you temporarily. _

_ It is not Orlick. _

_ He has the voice of Orlick, perhaps, but the body of Drummle with a smattering of Compeyson and Jaggers to boot. His face, though, is shifting, can't be pinned down. Unlike you. _

_ He draws a blade from somewhere, and you can feel your heart pick up. It's rusty and old, and before you know it he's slicing at you, your arms, your chest, then your neck and face, and you can't move. His animalistic cries punctuate the air, and with it comes the reek of alcohol, sending you flinching backwards into an inescapable corner. _

_ He pauses. Cold blood drips into your eyes, and you can't see his next move, but you can feel the malice emanating from him, and suddenly you're sure he's going for your neck, the air before his hand your only warning before- _

Pip sits up in bed, his hands coming up to shield his face without his telling them to. After a heart-racing moment, he lowers them, daring to glance about.

To his side, Clara sleeps peacefully, white nightgown glowing in the thin light from the street lamps outside. To his other side, the door to the bedroom opens, and Herbert appears in the doorway, backlit by a light in the hall. Pip feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes as Herbert slips back into bed with a whispered, "Did I wake you?"

"Not at all," he replies, turning to face him. The same light that illuminates Clara's nightgown casts a shaft of light across the bridge of Herbert's nose, and it's just enough to see the concern in his expression.

"Then what woke you? My dear," he says, likely noticing Pip's teariness, "are you alright?"

"A dream," says Pip, by way of reassurance.

Herbert, by way of reassurance, leans forward to hug him. This measure, Pip finds, is far more effective—he sinks into the warmth of Herbert, tears and all.

There they sit for a long moment, until Pip pulls away to wipe his cheeks, a soft apology upon his lips. Herbert chases the apology off his lips himself.

"If I may," Herbert begins, "what did you dream of?"

"A most unfortunate incident on the marshes, which you saved me from—and, I daresay, have saved me from again," says Pip, and Herbert laughs quietly.

"And I shall always save you, if I am able," says Herbert, and he says it with such earnestness that Pip feels his heart swell with affection.

"Oh," says Pip. He finds Herbert's hands and laces their fingers together. Fresh tears well in his eyes, though he doesn't bury his face in Herbert's supporting shoulder; he instead sinks into the mattress, and beside him—still attached at the hand—Herbert does the same.

Pip only lasts a moment before fidgeting. His mind, he finds, is not quite free from the images that plagued it mere minutes before. He releases Herbert’s hand, rolls to one side, then to the other. No sooner does a frustrated sigh leave him than Herbert touches his shoulder gently.

"My dear boy," he says, "would it help if I read to you?"

Relief and gratefulness for such a considerate companion as Herbert flood through him. "If it's not too much trouble."

"None at all," he says, and he leaves the bedroom to retrieve a light from the hall, coming back with a low-burning candle and a book Pip can't distinguish the title of.

In the warm, flickering light, he settles back into bed, tucking the sheet around himself and leaning against the headboard. Pip's heart aches as Herbert opens the book, then soothes as he begins to read; behind him, he feels Clara roll over, not yet awake but coming close.

Herbert sacrifices one hand to Pip so that he might run his fingers through his hair, a quiet gesture that does much to take Pip’s mind off of his dream. Hearing no complaints, Herbert continues in this way for some time. Pip, finding himself drifting towards sleep, reaches a hand up to Herbert's arm. "Thank you, my dear," he says.

In response, a smile finds its way onto Herbert's lips, and he pets Pip's hair with a particular fondness, sending Pip gently into a last wave of exhaustion.

* * *

Pip is once again the first to awaken, though this time it is peaceful and slow, the light from the window seeping into the room and bringing him gradually towards conscience. Half past seven, he guesses, based on the sliver of sky he can see through the window nearest him.

To his side, Herbert lies sleeping, likely having slipped under the blankets long after Pip himself succumbed to sleep.

To his other side, Clara shifts, squinting into the light to reach towards Pip with sleep-leaden limbs. With the same clumsiness of tongue, she greets Pip softly. Her tone is teasing when she asks, "What on Earth were the two of you discussing so late last night?"

"A dream," says Pip, and reaches over to brush her hair away from her forehead.

Herbert, now groaning in protest of unwanted wakefulness, corrects him: "A dream, and the adventures of one Mr. Barry Lyndon. A right roguish fellow." His voice is a touch hoarse from reading, and Pip finds himself appreciating him all the more.

"Oh, of course," says Clara. "And is that why that candle is reduced to nothing but a puddle of wax on the table, darling?”

"I'm afraid so," says Herbert, a little sheepish.

Clara hums thoughtfully, her chiding act quickly dissolving into a laugh. In lieu of a response, she rolls out of bed, coming around the bed to embrace him before slipping out of the room, bidding them both take their time.

Pip smiles towards her retreating form before returning to Herbert. “You sound exhausted.”

“Thank you, Pip,” says Herbert laughingly. “I'm afraid I rather am, and that my throat bears the worst of it.”

“I am sorry, Herbert, that you feel so poorly on my account,” Pip says.

“It is a trifle to your comfort,” says Herbert, and with such finality that Pip can find nothing to counter it.

Instead, he presses a kiss to Herbert’s lips and says, “Sleep a little longer, then, so that you might be more comfortable yourself; I will see to the acquisition of another candle for the bedroom.”

Herbert sighs, satisfied, and when Pip casts a last glance over his shoulder on his way out of the bedroom, he finds Herbert already surrendered to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst Herbert's reading a real book called The Luck of Barry Lyndon by William Makepeace Thackeray


	3. Herbert

_The nighttime air is cool and wet, and the sky above you shows a few twinkling stars. This, you think, would all be very comfortable and peaceful, were you not so certain of your being followed._

_The quiet splashing of water against the sides of your rowboat belies the discomfort in your breast. It gives no hint to the outside observer of the sweat on your brow, the chill in your lungs, the way your arms burn with every pull of the oars._

_Resolutely, you keep rowing. Behind you, the splash of oars not your own echoes across the water. A note of panic hums in your chest, and you pull the oars harder._

_The water is not particularly kind to you—it only seems to grow thicker against the oars. The strain demands that you draw in more air, but as you take a breath, the air turns sour on your tongue, causing you to choke and splutter._

_Still, you try your best to move forward and escape your pursuer. But with your ever-growing need for air, you are quickly put to a standstill, doubling over on your seat and choking against the air of the Thames, the smell of refuse and waste and death pushing against the back of your throat._

_The fog only grows thicker, the smell making your eyes water and nose run and tongue go dry, and through it all your pursuer draws nearer. You can't bring yourself to care much about him, what with the choking._

_There's the clunk of wood against wood, and the rowboat sways, then sways again as someone steps into the boat behind you. You're certain that, be it through asphyxiation or murder, your death is mere moments away._

A fog hangs thickly over Herbert's mind as he awakens in unfamiliar surroundings; though as the fog lifts, he finds familiar shapes around him: the bottle of ink still open at his elbow, the letters and bills and other scraps of paper that populate his desk come gradually into focus.

Herbert pushes his chair back, unease settling against his ribs.

In the next room, Pip lies asleep on the sofa, a book still lying open on his chest. Clara sits before the fire, knitting. Upon seeing Herbert, she sets her needles down and calls out a quiet greeting.

With a near inaudible response, Herbert settles at her knee, the softness of her nightgown a comforting feeling which assuages the worst of his discomfort. Clara reaches out a hand to stroke his cheek. In a hushed voice, she asks, "What's wrong, darling?"

"Nothing at all," says he, for beside her he finds little to be upset about. "What are you making here?"

"Stockings," says Clara, the tone of her voice telling Herbert that she does not think his words particularly truthful. "One of my pairs developed a run the other day, and I thought I may as well save a trip to the shops." She doesn't pick up the needles, only considers Herbert with a discerning eye.

He pretends not to see her do it. He knows full well how clearly she can see him and finds it both a mercy and a curse, alternately.

After a moment of deliberation, she shoos him away from her so that she might stand and walk into the dining room. She does not invite him to follow, but he does, as well she knew he would.

"I'll make you some tea," she says, setting down the kettle and turning up the heat. He offers her quiet thanks.

She doesn't allow the room to be taken over by silence; with the teapot set to boil, she sits down at the dining table beside him, once again turning her discerning gaze upon him. "May I ask what's made you so unsettled?"

He smiles and looks down at the grain in the wood. She takes his right hand in both of hers.

"Nothing so serious as you make it out to be, Clara," says he. "Only a dream. It's half gone from my mind already."

She hums thoughtfully. "If you say so."

The teapot whistles behind them, and she hurries to take it off of the heat, lest it wake Pip in the parlor. She goes about arranging a cup for herself and Herbert each, and when she sets it down before him, all remaining thoughts of his dream dissipate like the steam rising from the cup. He offers her another quiet thank you and sips gratefully from it.

Clara considers him from her seat. "I know what you need," she says, with such sudden conviction in her voice that Herbert narrowly stops himself from laughing into his cup.

"Which is?"

"Socks."

"Of course," says Herbert.

"I'm serious," she says, "the winter is fixing to be terribly cold, and I'm ever wanting things to do, and besides," she looks into her cup now, her brows furrowed a little, "I like doing things for the both of you."

"And I like whatever you make for me," says Herbert, his heart now warmed by her seriousness and affection. "I think socks are an excellent idea."

She smiles up at him with renewed confidence. "But first, I think you ought to get to bed. Your actual bed, not whatever space you can clear on your desk."

"Only if you join me," Herbert says, shielding himself from Clara's faux-scandalized look with his teacup.

She swats his arm with the back of her hand, then kisses his cheek. "You are horrible. I'll be there in a moment."

* * *

Sometime in the middle of the night, Herbert is woken up by the bed moving beneath him.

There's no light to speak of in the room, the curtains being drawn against even the paltry light from the street, but a groping hand finds its way onto his shoulder, eliciting a protesting, half-awake groan from Herbert.

The shaking ceases. Then, from the darkness: "Herbert?"

"Handel," he says, rolling over, "what time is it?"

"How should I know? I've only woken up moments ago. To an empty room, I might add, with a dying fire."

Herbert snorts. "Your fault for falling asleep on the sofa, dear," he reminds Pip.

Pip sighs. "So it is." He at last settles to Herbert's side, draping an arm comfortably over Herbert's waist. "Did you tire of sleeping atop your pens and papers?"

"So I did," says Herbert, nudging his way under Pip's chin, gladly soaking up some of his warmth. "And I daresay you tired of sleeping with your chin to your chest."

"Perhaps," says Pip. "Or perhaps I missed you."

Though the room is dark, Herbert can clearly picture the flush that overtakes Pip's face at the admission of affection; it makes him wish he could reliably find Pip's lips to kiss him. He settles for Pip's collarbone.

Pip sighs. "Some day," he says, "we shall all get to bed at the same time, and we shall all be comfortable and settle down and get the damn blankets right over everybody."

Herbert laughs and pulls at the corner of the sheets in an attempt to cover Pip.

All he gets in response is a grunt from Clara and a hand pushed against his back in a sleepy attempt to stop him.

"It seems," Herbert says, "she has other ideas."

"Be quiet," groans Clara.

Herbert can feel Pip's shoulders shake with attempts to hold back laughter.

"Good night, Clara," says Herbert. Pip echoes his sentiments.

In a softer voice, Clara returns, "Sweet dreams."


	4. +1

By the time Pip and Herbert reach the front door of their home, the streets have already grown dark and cool. Each huddles into his jacket as he ducks inside, the warmth from the fire within setting both at ease.

"Clara?" calls Herbert as he takes off his coat.

She slips into the front hall, already clad in her dressing gown and slippers. “You’re late,” she chides them, then kisses each of their cheeks.

"Apologies," says Herbert. "Clarriker wished to discuss the finances over dinner." He removes his hat and scarf and sets them on the side table beside Pip's.

Clara hums in resignation. "Then come sit in the parlor with me," she says, and Pip and Herbert follow her, glad to settle into evening routines.

Before long, fireside activities—reading, writing, knitting, tea—lead to drooping eyelids, then, inevitably, to relocation to the upstairs bedroom.

They climb into bed, the three of them, all in white cotton and cozy-tired; they argue over sides of the bed until Pip flops in the middle of it all, pulling Clara and Herbert to either side of him and declaring his exhaustion far more important than their debates over the merits of the left side of the mattress.

Thus settled, they all wrap themselves up in blankets—old and patched and newly bought alike—and amongst whispers of conversations carried up from the parlor, none of them so much fall asleep as they do drift gently into it.

__

* * *

__

_ You open your eyes. _

_ It's not quite dark. A candle on the bedside table closest to you sputters lowly, barely illuminating two sleeping bodies beside you. You sit up and lean over to blow it out. _

_ The blankets draped over your legs are warm and cozy, and you shift in the bed, pulling the blankets back up over your chest. Someone beside you shifts. It's followed by a low mumble, a protest against your movements. _

_ You reach out and offer a soothing touch. "Go back to sleep, dear," you say, and with a sigh, they do. _

_ You settle back into the mattress, pull the blankets up to your chin. The coziness of the bedroom and the comfort of your two dearest loves draws you down below the realm of wakefulness, and the last thing you feel before surrendering again to sleep is an overwhelming sense of warmth. _


End file.
